


The Lady and the Arrow

by GoodMorningMoon



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Crossbow Wound, Episode Related, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Historical, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, Missing Scene, POV Multiple, Recovery, Victorian, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27380266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodMorningMoon/pseuds/GoodMorningMoon
Summary: A crossbow bolt to the gut is quite a blow no matter how fit you are. Murdoch recovers from the events of 1x11, "Bad Medicine."
Relationships: George Crabtree & William Murdoch, William Murdoch/Julia Ogden
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	The Lady and the Arrow

William Murdoch lies flat on his back, one hand gripping the arrow that has just impaled him, while his other hand falls weakly to the floor. Sarah Pensell’s panicked face hovers above his as his own heartbeat thunders in his ears, nearly drowning her out as she calls his name.

 _Hurts_. The arrow is embedded right in his abdomen, and he cannot catch his breath. The slightest movement is excruciating.

Miss Pensell wraps a trembling hand around the wooden shaft and gives an experimental tug. He screams, and she stops to plead with him. “William, we have to get this out of you.”

“No!” he wheezes, and nearly convulses from the agony. He has seen enough corpses with stab wounds, listened to Doctor Ogden enough times, to know that it is a terrible idea for anyone but a surgeon to remove the projectile. “Could start… to bleed more. Hospital… first. Doctor. Leave… it.”

“Are you sure?” Her eyes are clouded with worry.

“Yes,” he hisses, pain still surging through him. The edges of his vision begin to shimmer and darken as Miss Pensell relents, and releases the arrow to lay a hand on his cheek. Their eyes lock as they recall the last time they saw this play out, both of them witnessing it repeatedly in their dreams.

 _And who is the final victim?_ he had asked her.

She had looked at him solemnly, and intoned the words that chilled him to his soul: _It’s… you._

He shifts a little, and searing pain overwhelms him once again. He gasps. “Please help me. I don’t want to…” He cannot bring himself to say the word. _I don’t want to die_.

Miss Pensell nods: she understands better than anyone. “Miss Pringle, please summon help! We need the Constabulary and an ambulance carriage at once!” The younger woman scrambles away without a word, and William gives a small, wry smile. He supposes Miss Pringle’s quick thinking has saved his life, at least for a few more minutes. When she returns, he should try to thank her.

His assailant lies nearby, groaning from the blow Miss Pringle dealt to his head. Miss Pensell snaps at him. “Do shut up, Richard. It’s over. You’re going to hang.” Her voice turns pleading. “William, an ambulance carriage is on the way. Stay with me, William.”

He tries to speak. “Priest. Need a… priest.”

She lays a finger on his lips. “Shh, William. The ambulance will be here for you soon.”

 _It won’t be soon enough._ He has already watched himself die.

His grip on the arrow slackens as the hallway blurs around him. His hand slides down the shaft onto the wound, sparking another jolt of pain. Hot, sticky blood oozes through his waistcoat.

_This is it, then. This is how my time on Earth ends. I had hoped for so much more._

Images dance through his mind. Scenes from his boyhood in Nova Scotia. Laughing with his sister as she chases him up a tree. Light glinting in his mother’s kind eyes. The cloud, the spectre, of his angry drunken father. His mother’s funeral. Father Keegan, reciting the Prayer to St. Joseph again and again, over all the bodies from that terrible shipwreck. Beloved Liza, laughing in the sunlight. Some comfort in the knowledge that he is about to join her.

_Holy Mary, pray for me. Saint Joseph, pray for me. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, assist me in my last agony._

He can’t remember any more—odd, considering how many times he heard it that night—and so he turns back to what is most familiar. _Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen. Hail Mary, full of grace…_

He is barely conscious when help finally arrives. Fingers on his pulse as he is lifted onto a stretcher. The pain is unbearable. Someone lays blankets over him, and the stretcher starts to move. He keeps praying as the walls close in.

Darkness enfolds him in warm black arms.

* * *

_What? What is that?_

George Crabtree is startled from a sound sleep by a series of short, sharp knocks, followed by a lot of barking from Violet. 

“Crabtree! Open the door!” The voice is unmistakable. _The inspector? Here?_ George rolls out of bed, groggy and disoriented, and shushes his dog. She whines as he quickly lights a lamp, and she stays right at his side, giving a warning growl to whoever is on the other side of the door, as he shuffles through the dim gaslight.

Brackenreid stands there, red-faced. He does not wait to be greeted, but instead blurts out the terrible news without preamble. “Murdoch’s been shot.”

George’s heart drops, and skips at least one beat. “No,” he breathes, reeling. He cannot believe it. _There has to be some mistake._ _A bad dream, perhaps_. “No. That’s not possible.”

A quick shake of the inspector’s head. “Of course it’s possible, Bugalugs, and it’s happened. Greyson Institute. Arrow, just like the other poor buggers. Now get yourself decent and let’s go.”

 _Go. Must go._ Right: he must get dressed. His heart, still low in his chest, pounds as he moves to the wardrobe and retrieves a pair of trousers, a shirt, and a set of braces. _The detective? Shot?_

“Is… is he… did he…” He cannot even bear to ask, for fear of the answer. He watches himself putting on his clothes over the union suit he was sleeping in.

“Still breathing, last I heard, but very much out of it. On his way to the hospital. Bastard got him right in the gut.”

Crabtree is trying to balance on one foot while he lifts the other into the leg of his trousers, and the news hits him like a blow. _Detective William Murdoch, shot. Gutshot. Alive, but for how long?_ He is so distracted that he starts to sway, and he cannot catch himself before he tips over. He is mortified.

Brackenreid suppresses a chuckle before he starts to roar. “Enough dillydallying, Crabtree! Stop wasting everyone’s time! Get a move on! We’ve got to get to the crime scene!”

“Not the hospital?” His question is plaintive as he scrambles back up and leans on a table to finish getting dressed.

Brackenreid softens, very slightly. “Nowt we can do for him there, and we should see to the scene. There’ll be time to visit him later.”

 _Will there?_ George thinks, but does not say. He hopes the inspector’s optimism is not misplaced. He sits to lace his boots as the inspector glowers and mutters, “At least we caught the bastard.”

“Did we, sir? Well, I suppose that’s at least some relief…” He is almost dizzy as he pulls on his coat, and all at once, the two men are out the door.

* * *

On the carriage ride, Brackenreid tells Crabtree what he knows, which is very little. The constables on the night shift at the station house received a panicked telephone call from someone at the Greyson Institute, a woman apparently, demanding the Constabulary and an ambulance carriage for a detective with an arrow in his gut. He is furious not to know more, and he spurs the driver on. He needs to see the scene.

George wonders silently why he is here in this carriage with this man, what he has done to merit such special attention from someone two positions his senior. Their brotherhood at the Lodge, perhaps? It’s certainly not every day that an inspector fetches a constable from his home. He notes that Brackenreid’s accent is stronger than usual, and he is absently opening and closing his fists. A quick glance reveals a firmly clenched jaw. George, too, is nervous. He values Detective Murdoch’s mentorship more than he can express, and truth be told, the man is quite dear to him. Something of a hero, in fact. He can hardly bear not knowing whether he is alive or dead.

The driver brings them to front of the Institute just as the ambulance carriage is pulling away.

* * *

Binnie is locked up tight in the cells. He did not resist arrest, but two of his teeth lie on Brackenreid’s desk nonetheless, collected as souvenirs. Not for the first time or the last, Crabtree finds himself terrified of the inspector’s wrath (and his right hook), as Brackenreid pulls off his black leather glove and throws it back in the drawer. One does not muck about with the inspector’s men.

They await news from the hospital. He was alive when they took him away, Miss Pensell reports. She is sitting in the inspector’s office, waiting for the tea that Brackenreid has demanded from Higgins. George feels so strange to be in the station house in his civvies—not even a suit—that it is oddly comforting when Brackenreid shouts at him, although what he has to say is quite unexpected. “Crabtree! You’re going to wear a rut in the floor with all that pacing. You’re off duty. Pace where you want, but don’t do it here! Get out of here, lad. Go home.”

He protests. “Sir! I, I, I need to know the condition of the detective!”

“Then go to the hospital! What you do on your own time is no concern of mine. Just go.”

Crabtree almost smiles. “Very well, then, sir, I shall. Shall I contact you with any news?”

Brackenreid puts his pen down and regards the young constable gravely. His expression is not unkind. “Not unless it’s bad. No news is good news, as they say.”

“I suppose so, sir. Well, I’ll, ah, let you know. If I have to. Which I hope I don’t. I mean, I do hope that I can share good news, but as you say…”

“Shut it, Crabtree, and get out.”

“Good evening, sir.”

* * *

George finds the surgical ward without much trouble, thanks to a friendly nurse. She gestures him to a bench, but he prefers to pace. The inspector did tell him to, after a fashion.

By the time the doctors start to leave the operating theatre, George is very much aware of his feet, and his rumbling stomach. The sight of the detective, however, drives every other thought out of his mind. He is horrified, and transfixed.

Though George has seen his mentor incapacitated briefly now and then, this is beyond any dreadfulness he could have imagined. There is no hint of the man’s vigour, his good health, his zest for activity or thirst for knowledge. Instead, he lies motionless, looking for all the world like a wax figure. His usually impeccable hair is tousled, his chest and shoulders bare, his complexion terribly pale. His midsection is wrapped in a thick white bandage. A white sheet is draped across his lower half as the gurney that bears him is wheeled down the hall. The only indication he is still alive is a slight rise and fall of his chest. Rise, and fall. Rise, and fall. Even George knows it is too slow.

A wave of nausea passes through him. It takes a moment for him to collect himself before he realises he should chase after the doctor for a report.

He calls to him, and finds himself facing a thin, white-haired, white-coated man with stony grey eyes peering from behind round, wire-rimmed spectacles. The surgeon, removing his bloodied apron to toss it into a hamper, glances toward George and gives him the once-over before he turns back to wiping the crimson stains from his hands. “Are you family?”

George is taken aback. “I, I, I… uh, no. Detective Murdoch hasn’t any family nearby. I’m, uh, I, I, I work with him. Constable George Crabtree.” His impulse is to offer a hand for a shake, but, well, the man’s hands are covered with the detective’s blood.

“Well, where are they?” the surgeon snaps, and George blinks.

“His family? Ah, I, I believe his father is in British Columbia, or at least on his way. They’re not close. His father has a bit of a, well, he’s awfully fond of a tipple.” He almost whispers that last. “And I seem to recall something about a sister in a convent in Montr—”

“No wife? Mother?”

George bristles, feeling like a schoolboy taking a scolding from the crotchety headmaster. “Sir. His fiancée died of consumption, and his mother of accidental drowning. I tell you again, he’s no family here.”

“So. No one to make decisions for him or assist in his care.”

George thinks of Doctor Ogden. “Well, I’m not sure ab—” he manages before the imperious older man cuts him off again.

“And he’s in general good health?”

 _General good health? Of course he is!_ George thinks it is not too much to say that the entire station house is impressed by the detective’s physique. “I, I dare say he’s a fine physical specimen, Doctor! Certainly the fittest man at our station house, if not the entire Constabulary!” George swells with pride for a moment before his eyes flit back to the still form on the gurney. It dawns on him that the doctor might be inquiring about the detective’s medical history, and he remembers why he is having this conversation. “Well, apart from the arrow wound to his gut. How… how bad is it?”

The brusque doctor’s demeanour changes, as if he has just been given leave to pat himself on the back. “His large intestine was perforated and a resection was necessary. I did so brilliantly, if I do say so myself.”

“That’s wonderful, Doctor. Thank you. Thank you kindly. And so he’ll live?”

“Well, I am certainly confident in the quality of the repair, but whether he’ll live is in God’s hands now. We’ve certainly done everything we can to clean up any digestive fluids and waste that leaked into the abdominal cavity, but this is a particularly dangerous sort of wound. With this kind of injury and repair, the risk of infection is extremely high. Almost inevitable, really.”

George winces at the thought. _It will be unpleasant enough for him to recover from the wound, let alone infection_. _Oh, the poor fellow._ “May… may I see him?”

“Definitely not. He is certainly incapable of entertaining visitors at the moment. The nurses can tell you about visiting hours, though he won’t be ready for those for several days at least.” He finishes wiping his hands, and tosses the gown away as he turns on his heel. “Good day, Constable.”

_Dismissed indeed, then. I suppose I should leave and tell the inspector, and Violet will be needing a walk…_

* * *

Doctor Ogden is waiting with the inspector in his office when George returns to the station house. George is quite fond of the doctor, a spirited woman whose medical knowledge he trusts implicitly, and he often wonders as to the relationship between her and the detective. The melancholy hanging over Murdoch for so long over the death of his fiancée seems to have lifted recently, and perhaps…

Brackenreid beckons him into the office. The entire bullpen watches intently as he heads in, waiting for news as well.

George pauses in the doorway. “He’s alive, lads,” he tells them, and there is a collective sigh of relief. A few of the men cheer. “Now let’s hope he stays that way.”

“Bugalugs,” Brackenreid greets him.

“George?” the doctor begins, a catch in her voice. “He’s alive?”

“He is indeed, Doctor. The surgeon removed the arrow from his, uh, you know, that long thing in one’s gut. _In-_ something.”

“Intestine, George! Was it the small intestine or the large one? Did he have to resect it, or could he just stitch the hole shut? Are there any signs of infection?”

_I should have supposed there would be a lot of questions. I’d have written things down._

“I, I, uh, I believe it was the large one. Yes. Yes, he said large. And I do recall the word ‘resection’ as well. He said he cleaned everything as best he could. The detective is, uh, he’s resting now.”

“’Resting’? What does that mean? Has he awakened from the anaesthetic? Is he sedated, or sleeping normally?” There is a hint of desperation to her queries. For the first time George notices the handkerchief in her hands, and the redness around her eyes.

George’s own eyes grow huge, and he glances at the inspector. Brackenreid’s expression is grim, and his complexion is even more florid than usual. “I, I don’t know, Doctor. I saw him for only a moment. He was unnaturally pale, and he didn’t move a muscle, except to breathe, too slowly to my mind, I might add. His eyes were closed. That’s all I know, really.”

She takes a deep breath, and lowers her head. “Thank you, George. Perhaps I shall visit him myself.”

Something strikes him about her tone, her demeanour. _I dare say they would make quite the handsome couple…_

“Right, Crabtree. Back to work,” Brackenreid snaps. “Doctor, the chief constable will want the report on Richard Binnie.”

“Of course, Inspector,” Doctor Ogden responds, at exactly the same time as George’s “Yes, sir.” George stiffens, and returns to his desk, sitting down to a clear view of the detective’s office. Its emptiness is nearly unbearable. _Please come back, sir. We shouldn’t wish to have to break in someone new._

* * *

Violet seems to be able to tell when something is wrong. She stays particularly close to George all night and on her morning walk, and whines plaintively when he leaves her for the day, at least thirty minutes earlier than usual. He has an errand to run.

Despite the stern warnings from the doctor the day before, George has decided to risk a visit to the detective. How could anyone turn down a friendly young officer of the law? And Brackenreid and Doctor Ogden—truth be told, everyone who frequents Station House Four—will certainly be eager for more news.

George supposes Doctor Ogden has enough connections at the hospital that she could always telephone for information, should she choose not to visit: there might be a whiff of scandal at the hospital should an unmarried woman call on an unmarried man. _Although she hardly seems the type to concern herself with such societal disapproval…_

The fearsome doctor of the day before is nowhere to be seen. George’s uniform and earnest demeanour seem to earn him the trust of a matronly older nurse with kind eyes, and she directs him to the ward where the detective lies. She tells him the unusually handsome patient has made quite a stir among the nurses, who are all abuzz with talk of the fit young detective who has yet to awaken.

George thanks the matron, and locates the detective’s bed on the ward. He pauses for a moment to take in the scene. A much younger nurse is attending to the wounded man, who looks most unwell. He is flushed and sweaty—feverish, George fears—and still there is no sign of movement save for his breath.

The nurse glances up shyly but does not meet his eyes. George tips his helmet to her before she returns her attention to her patient. She is rubbing something into the back of his arm. George notes a bottle and two jars on the cart next to the bed: rubbing alcohol, vaseline, and powdered oxide of zinc.

“Nnnurse?” George ventures, not sure how to begin. His eyes are drawn to the still, prone figure. Murdoch’s arm is limp as the nurse lifts and bends it. She sprinkles the powder on it before she lays it back down and moves to the other side of the bed.

“Yes, Constable?” She does not look up, and George wonders how to take her tone. “May I help you?”

“I hope you can! I, ah, I work with Detective Murdoch. Well, the lads down at the station house… I dare say we’re all eager for news. Will… will he be all right?”

She colours slightly. “I’m afraid I couldn’t say. The doctor would be able to answer that much better than I could.” She opens the bottle of alcohol and pours a bit into her cupped hand, then lifts Murdoch’s arm to rub it in.

“What’s that you’re doing, then? Is he with fever?”

“Yes,” she replies, still not looking at him. “Infection has taken hold. Quite common after intestinal surgery. I’m looking after his skin. He’s at risk of bedsores. The alcohol will help cool him as well.”

George ponders for a moment, and remembers one of Aunt Rhoda’s complaints in her final days. He shudders at the memory. “But bedsores only show up on people who’ve not moved for quite some time, am I right? You know, weeks?”

“Bedsores can appear within a matter of days. They are far more easily prevented than cured, you know.[i] The doctors have no idea when he will awaken. It depends on how well he fights the infection. He appears to be strong and fit, so his chances are better than most.”

His throat tightens. “But he will wake up when the fever breaks?” _When, not if,_ he tries to reassure himself. He watches the alcohol evaporate from the detective’s bare, finely muscled arm.

“It is possible, Constable. As I said, the doctors do not know.” She opens the jar of vaseline and begins to smooth some onto Murdoch’s skin.

 _If he even lives_. George chases the thought away, refusing even to consider the alternative. He clears his throat, realising he has not introduced himself. “Constable Crabtree. George Crabtree. Thank you, Nurse…?”

“Nurse Morrison.”

“Nurse Morrison. Thank you. Do you know where I might find the doctor?”

“I believe he is in surgery at the moment. I’m sure you’ll be notified at the station house if there’s news.” She finishes with the vaseline, and reaches again for the powder.

George finds himself staring at the form in the bed. Something squeezes his chest, and for a moment he finds it hard to take a breath.

He hesitates, then asks. “Will it help to address him directly?”

She glances around for a more senior nurse. Seeing none, she tells him, “I don’t see why not.”

 _Fair enough, then._ He turns to the detective. “Sir? Sir, if you can hear me, give me a sign.”

Nurse Morrison cannot quite catch herself before she scoffs. “He’s not going to give you a sign, Constable. He’s quite insensible. Considering the shock of the initial injury, the resultant blood loss, the surgery to repair the damage, and the sedative and opiate medication he has received, I assure you he will not respond.” Her voice drops, and she leans toward him. “That’s not to say he can’t hear you. As to that, only he can know. You, speak to him. I’ll look after his legs.”

George nods in gratitude, and grabs a nearby chair to move toward Murdoch’s bedside. “Sir, I…”

For once he is tongue-tied. What can he say to his superior, his mentor, his _hero_ , really? Is this the last time he will speak to him?

_No. It must not be._

“Sir, all of us down at the station house want you to know we’re sorry this has befallen you, and we’re all holding you in our thoughts. Doctor Ogden especially.” _Oops._ He hadn’t quite meant to speak that last aloud. “We’d, ah, we’d all like you to get well soon. Uh, be well, sir.”

He can think of nothing else to say. He squeezes Murdoch’s hand briefly, not wishing to touch the ointment and powder on his arm. Nurse Morrison is raising the sheet to reveal a beautifully sculpted thigh, and George decides that perhaps it would be best if he made a quick retreat. “Nurse,” he bids her farewell, and tips his helmet again before he nearly trips over himself to bolt down the hall toward the entrance.

He hears the nearby church bell, and silently swears a mild oath: he’s late for work. He hopes the inspector will forgive him when he explains why.

* * *

Days go by, all just the same. George gets up early, walks the dog and drops her off at home, slips by the hospital on his way to the station house. Nurse Morrison has come to expect him, and is ready with updates about the detective’s condition. The infection is insidious, and he is still wracked with fever. Detective Murdoch awakens every few hours, delirious, most often believing himself a young lad calling to his mother from his sickbed. He allows himself to be fed fluids and gruel, but only by the dark-haired nurses when they remove their caps. The doctors still decline to say whether he will survive.

Each day, the inspector greets the news with ire. At first, George recoiled in fear, but he has examined his actions again and again, and he cannot fathom that he has done something deserving of the man’s wrath. Truth be told, he has become sympathetic: he suspects Inspector Brackenreid is upset about something rather deeper and more intimate, and needs an outlet. He would not be surprised: he has seen barfights among strangers more than once after some poor lad’s just lost his girl. He has heard Brackenreid call Murdoch his “best man” more than once. The absence cannot be easy for him.

Once Brackenreid is placated, George dreads the daily trek across the laneway to the morgue. Doctor Ogden is the height of propriety and bright cheerfulness—rather forced, he notes—and he can hardly stand to see the light dim in her eyes each time he brings the same report. _He is still feverish, still insensible._ Each day she tenses, and thanks him, and he takes his leave. He wonders, but does not ask, whether she has visited him too.

For those close to the detective, George realises, the ordeal caused by his injury is now both painful and mundane. The sameness of the days makes it harder and harder to steer himself away from despair. _Good news will come_ , he promises himself, and hopes past hope that it is true.

* * *

“William.”

A woman’s voice. He can’t place it.

_Liza?_

“William,” the voice calls again. “Wake up, William.”

He is lying down, on something soft. Has he been asleep? He must have been. But why is Liza near him in bed? They promised to be chaste until marriage. Perhaps he is ill. But what is wrong with him?

A ripple of grief as he remembers. He will never lie with Liza. Liza is gone. Liza told him to let her go.

He tries to piece together where he is, and what has happened. Dim flashes of memory come. Women in white, lifting his head, holding cups of liquid to his lips, bathing him, massaging him, fussing over him. Hushed voices speaking about him as if he is not there. Shivering and misery: he is so cold. Father Fair hovering over him, intoning prayers in Latin. George Crabtree waits nearby, turning his helmet around in his hands, awkwardly wishing him well. Further back in the mist there is Sarah Pensell, standing terrified in the hallway at the Greyson Institute. Perhaps the voice is hers. It all feels like an unending dream. He cannot decide what is real.

“William!” The voice grows more urgent. “William, please. Wake up!”

The weight of a blanket presses on him. Warm hands on his bare arm. Dull pain radiating through his gut. A soft moan. _Was that me? Who is calling to me?_

“William. It’s Julia. Open your eyes.”

He summons every ounce of strength he has, and obeys. He feels as if he has been asleep for years. Doctor Ogden’s face blurs into view.

_Julia._

He is thrilled, even if he is too weak to show her. She searches his eyes, and lights up into radiance when she recognizes him looking back. Can she see his faint smile? He can manage no more, and his eyes drift closed again. 

He hears fabric rustle as she shifts. A smile comes into her voice. “William,” she says again, and squeezes his forearm. “Welcome back.”

She waits. “Where?” he finally whispers, trying to figure out where he had been. 

“You’re hurt. You’re in hospital,” she tells him, her tone soothing. Did she read his mind? “You’ve been here ten days. You were shot with an arrow, and you had some surgery to repair the damage. You’re recovering from a bad infection and fever. You must _rest_.”

“Mmm,” he answers as her words filter in. The corners of his mouth quirk upward. She grips his arm tighter at the response.

The effort to concentrate exhausts him. _Rest. Yes. Rest. The idea is most compelling._

_Arrow._

Everything bursts back in a rush. The hooded figure, crossbow aimed straight at him just as Sarah Pensell had predicted, just as he had dreamed. The shaft piercing the air, rushing straight toward him, thudding into him, fulfilling Miss Pensell’s dire prophecy of his death…

His whole body jolts at the memory of the impact, and he cries out. It _hurts_. Then it hits him:

_I’m not dead._

His cry turns to a noise that most observers would never recognise as a laugh, but Julia’s cry in response tells him that she does. A slender hand grips his.

_I’m alive!_

He is alive. His entire body is tingling with relief. Regardless of what he and Sarah Pensell saw, he did not die. When it is finally time for him to pass, he can still receive the blessings and sacraments of the Church, and for now, he still has time. Blessed, sacred time.

He has never been so relieved to prove a lady wrong.

* * *

[i] Clara S. Weeks-Shaw. (1893). _A textbook of nursing for the use of training schools, families, and private students,_ 2nd ed. New York: D. Appleton & Company.


End file.
